


even if the words don't sound right.

by milominderbinder



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1205575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milominderbinder/pseuds/milominderbinder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's didn't learn a whole lot from his mom before she died, and what he did learn screwed him up pretty bad. From his mom, Mickey learnt that the only time anyone in his house showed any fucking affection for anyone else was when they were high.</p><p>Years later, Ian Gallagher is sat on his couch, and Mickey's not high, or he's not high <i>enough</i>, and for some fucking reason, he still wants to reach over and kiss those stupid freckled lips.</p>
            </blockquote>





	even if the words don't sound right.

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt from myinterestsintheworld: _Mickey pretending he is drunk/high when he isnt so that he has an excuse to be all lovingly towards ian._
> 
> Title from Listen (listen listen) by wintersleep, because I still can't have original thoughts. 
> 
> Also posted on my tumblr, [mickeymilk](http://mickeymilk.tumblr.com).

When Mickey was a kid, his mom would sometimes sing him to sleep.

Nobody was claiming she was a perfect parent or anything, but if he had to dredge up a good memory of her, that would be it. _"Hey Jude, don't make it bad, take a sad song and make it better_ " in his ear, her voice raspy and far from tuneful, somehow so comforting at the same time. Mickey was never built for silence, thrived off the chaos in his house from the moment he was born; sometimes, the rare times that everyone was away or passed out at the same time, he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep. Missed the noise. That’s when she’d sing to him, in her awful voice, and somehow, it comforted him.

There were other things, too, he liked to remember about her. She used to call him _little bird_ , because while his brothers were big and chubby from the moment they were born, he was a scrawny kid, all knees and elbows and never quite getting taller than Mandy even though she was a year younger than him. She would occasionally make fried Mac’n’cheese, her only culinary specialty, really late at night, and creep into Mickey’s room and wake him up just so they could eat it together. The rare occasions they were watching TV together, she’d stroke her hand through the hair on the back of his neck, absent mindedly, as though she didn’t even realise what she was doing or how fucking much that casual touch meant.

She died when he was nine years old. A late bloomer in terms of the realities of their family, he was ten by the time he realised she only did any of that nice shit when she was high.

It’s then that the circuits in his brain get crossed, he always figures, rewrite in such a way that it seems, to him - the only time anyone can be fucking honest with each other, or affectionate, or any of those other goddamn things Mickey’s been taught not to want to be, is when they’re fucked out of their own right minds. A pill or a bottle or a joint or a string of white powder are the only ways to show love, he understands it. And without any of them - without any of them, doing what you want is what’s gonna get you killed.

\--

As it turns out, the circuit-cross in his brains doesn’t actually matter that much.

For a long enough time, there’s nobody he _wants_ to be kind to.

\--

Then, because Mickey’s life wasn’t hard enough before, fucking _Ian Gallagher_ stomps his way into the picture.

\--

He’s sat on the couch watching cartoons with a half-smoked joint dangling between his lips when he hears the rattle of the door handle. Ian comes stumbling in a moment later, talking on his phone, mumbling something that Mickey assumes is to his sister, “ _yeah, Fi, no problem, yeah, I’ll be home later_.” Mickey just stares at him, doesn’t say anything; watches as Ian flips his phone shut, shrugs off his coat and throws it on the floor, finally meets Mickey’s eyes and grins and comes walking over to join him on the couch. They’ve got the house to themselves for the night, and Ian knows it, Mickey’s brothers all being out on a run and Mandy being a surrogate Gallagher these days over in Lip’s bedroom. They have a house to themselves. It’s been three days since they saw each other, and they have a house to themselves, and Mickey feels like such a fucking pussy because he doesn’t even want to fuck first of all. He wants to ask Ian how he’s fucking _doing_.

He doesn’t. But as soon as Ian sits down, Mickey leans over and kisses him hello, a wet messy press of their lips, hooks his fingers into the neck of Ian’s t-shirt, brushing the soft skin of his collarbone, other hand resting gently against his neck, licking into his mouth. Ian makes a little _oomf_ of surprise but then throws himself into it, pushing their bodies close together and twisting into Mickey. His hands seem unsure where to settle, waving around Mickey’s hips for a moment before coming to rest on his legs. And Mickey’s warm in his stomach, a bitter contrast to the ice he usually feels holding him up at his core. He feels warm, and happy, and like if the whole fucking world were different he wouldn’t mind just kissing Ian forever.

He pulls away after a few too many moments and shoves the joint back between his lips, doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes. That’s only the second time they’ve kissed, and the first was just for a moment, more to prove a point than for any kind of romantic reasons. But ever since then, Mickey hasn’t been able to get it out of his fucking head. The taste of Ian’s lips. Kissing Ian is the first time he hasn’t felt _panicked_ in so, so long.

“Jesus,” says Ian, laughing a little as he leans back after Mickey breaks the kiss, his face lit up with that fucking smug grin that Mickey hates and loves so much. “How many joints have you _smoked_ already?”

“‘m few,” Mickey says. _Lies_. Mickey lies, the one dangling between his fingers is his first one of the night, it’s not even strong shit and it’s cut so much it’s mostly tobacco. He’s had a couple of beers on top of it, but really, he’s barely buzzed.

But Ian doesn’t need to know that, he realises as he’s speaking. Ian doesn’t need to know that Mickey likes to do all that sappy shit like kissing when he’s _sober_ , and then everything will okay, as long as Ian doesn’t know then he can’t go fucking expecting anything, he can’t go making this a _thing_. It’s just like Mickey’s known since he was ten; when you’re high, you can do the lovey shit you don’t do the rest of the time. Except maybe you can get away with it when you’re not really high at all, so long as nobody else knows that.

He kisses Ian again, after thinking that, fingers hooking into his shirt once again. Ian doesn’t see the repetition coming, clearly, makes the same little _oomf_ and takes a moment to kiss back. It lasts longer, this time, and Ian goes to pull away a few times like he thinks Mickey’s got some sort of a time limit, but Mickey just pulls him straight back into it.

“I like you like this,” Ian says, a moment after they do break apart, and it makes the lie worth it because he leans over and knocks their shoulders together with a laugh. “You’re so fucking sappy when you’re high. Bet I could make you do anything I say, right now.”

“Eh, probably,” Mickey agrees - there’s no point in disagreeing, it’s true even though he’s not high at all. Ian steals the joint out from his fingers, takes a drag himself, and Mickey doesn’t even mind. His now-free hand drifts up to rest against the back of Ian’s neck, fingers scratching over the short hairs there, thumb stroking at his skin. The casual touch alone sends shivers up his spine, and the odd look Ian gives him is worth it, worth every fucking second. Mickey doesn’t move his hand.

It’s like his mom used to do to him, when he was little. Sometimes when he’s watching TV and smoking he can still feel the ghost weight of her palm resting against his head, fingers running idly through his hair. Just like sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night craving fried mac’n’cheese, just like he secretly knows all the fucking words to that Beatles song she used to sing him and sometimes gets it stuck in his head, catches himself humming it when he’s home alone and the silence is freaking him out. And Mickey could never tell Ian any of that, not really, not unless he said it in the most fucking casual of passing moments and made it out to be so, so much less than it is. But still, Mickey rests his hand against the back of Ian’s neck, and it feels like Ian knows it means something.

And, fucking luckily, Ian never has to know Mickey’s not high as fuck while he’s doing this, just like Mickey wishes he’d never had to know his mom _was_.

Ian finishes off the joint and stubs it out on the coffee table before he asks, “So, uh, you wanna fuck?”

Mickey meets his eyes for a long second, then looks away because he can’t help the smile twitching about his lips.  
  
“Nah, man,” he says. “Not yet, we got all night. Let’s watch a movie or some shit.”


End file.
